


Stanley

by skyfullofsong



Category: Original Work
Genre: Comfort, Ease, Gen, Other, Wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24793741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfullofsong/pseuds/skyfullofsong
Summary: sometimes I write just because it's comforting. This was one of those times, sometimes you just want a warm bowl of soup for your soul. I hope you enjoy! take care
Kudos: 2





	Stanley

I dream of being married to a man called Stanley. He has long feet and he's funny. 

We do puzzles together laying down on the carpet, some TV show on in the background. He tells me about his day, he does something surprisingly intellectual for work despite all his jokes and extroverted-ness, a researcher for medical science. We always rush home to talk to each other. I remember watching a documentary show about a school, and one of the teachers was on his own. He said that he doesn't want an all consuming powerful love, he just wanted someone to tell things to when he gets home. That's sort of how I feel too. Anyone within a mile of Stanley is instantly his friend, they can't help it. He's kind and silly and brings light, goodness written in his core like a stick of rock. As I slot a puzzle piece into place, he talks about something that happened at work this morning. He's such a storyteller, winding you in to say some stupid punchline. I can never believe my luck. I wished for someone like this to love me and now I keep on wishing that he does and he will. 

One day we'll have children, and no sleep, and a greenhouse. Charlie and Grace, the twins. He's good with them, he knows so many games. How does he know so many games? I laugh as he leans in, tells them how to play something called Castles and dragons, which I'm fairly sure didn't exist until about twenty seconds ago and Charlie was about to kick the football through the greenhouse pane in an impending disaster. My life is split into halves of either preventing their mischief or dealing with the results of it. They have such sweet faces, open and half smiling all the time. We dress the children in bright colours, the world is so dark these days. I've always dressed weird but Stanley likes it. Matching six years olds in matching dungarees makes everything better. He roars and picks up Charlie as he laughs and squeals, he calls him Charles sometimes as a joke. Grace soon became Gracie and we don't know why it started but we can't stop. Stanley gives everyone a nickname, and it's infectious, our friends kids become Lacey-Lou and Jakey-boy and a whole collection of oddities that I honestly don't know how he dreams up. All of them love him, this 6,4 man who feels like a friendly giant. The twins keep us busy. We make bad art with them and hang it on the walls. We read to them and do all the voices. We go on walks and have competitions on who can find the most treasure. As my children and husband run to me bearing presents, I think to myself, I don't have to look I've already found it. But even so, they hold out their dirt covered hands and we bring home one beautiful silver feather, a stick, (Charlie isn't very good at this game) and a rock that's shiny and gemstone in the hollowed out underneath part. 

When I'm upstairs in the bath in the evening, I can hear him singing off tune as he cooks. He is the food he makes, hearty, warm, wholesome. The stew has carrots in it and I made some bread earlier to go with it, brown and seedy, mine and Stanley's favourite. The window fogs with condensation and the darkness that creeps to the glass feels a world away. It's quiet as we eat from floral mismatched bowls, I like to collect them and he doesn't mind. Every birthday he gets me a new painted plate or bowl or stripy mug. We'll sleep tonight, he says as he pats his belly. In the garden we sit in camping chairs and burn wood. We hold hands, our arms at an awkward angle as they reach over the cup holder to meet. I wonder, is this love? Opening your veins to somebody, exposing the vulnerable flesh? The hinge of my elbow, the crook of my inner arm is open as if a doctor is about to take blood, but his is too. He smiles at me. We have work tomorrow. We will wake up and plait Gracie's hair, put the leftover brown bread into colourful plastic lunchboxes. Life will not stop until it does. This man wants to spend the rest of his life with me, this man with the carrot stew soul and the nicknames and the warm laugh and the stories and the imagination and the happiness and the plates and the voices. The bad days are long behind me, and I am content. Well fed on his love, I go to bed.


End file.
